


Can't Remember Yesterday

by Saturn_the_Almighty



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Awkward Conversations, Buried Feelings, Canon-typical language, Carolina is a good big sister, Fluff and Angst, If you can't tell I love Psychology, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, M/M, On Hiatus, Please ignore any medical and neurological errors, Post-Season/Series 13, Present Tense, Recovering Memories, Red Team-centric, Retrograde Amnesia, Therapy, adding tags as I go, no beta we die like men, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-21
Updated: 2019-03-06
Packaged: 2019-03-19 06:18:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13698582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saturn_the_Almighty/pseuds/Saturn_the_Almighty
Summary: How do you help your best friend get his memories back without also revealing the huge crush you've been harboring for years?⚠ ON HIATUS ⚠





	1. The Most Important Person in His Life

**Author's Note:**

> Y'all on Tumblr whining about how there aren't enough Grimmons-centric fics on AO3? Here you go, ya fuckers.

_There are hundreds of Hargrove's forces coming at them from all directions. Simmons can see Tucker slashing clear through their ranks, his energy sword rippling with heat. He's in a rage, not speaking to anyone, not communicating. He's just... Fighting. Doc and Lopez are to Simmons' right, helping Caboose mow down the men flooding the hallway._

_They push forward, getting ever closer to the main exit hatch of the Staff of Charon. Tucker and Sarge are heading the attack, leaving Donut and Simmons to watch their backs. Grif is with them, peeking into side doorways and making sure no one's lying in wait._

_It all happens so fast._

_They're practically at the exit. Simmons hears the sound of a pelican flying close. Lopez is working on getting the door open and there are no more enemies in sight. Grif is leaning against a doorway catching his breath. But then, Grif takes off his helmet, just for a second because there's blood covering the visor and he can't see through it but the moment he does he gets a rifle butt to the head._

_There's a grey-clad man standing in the room that was supposed to be clear. He's facing Grif, watching as he staggers back. Simmons doesn't have time to react because as soon as it happens, another man takes ahold of Grif's head and slams it sideways into the doorframe. The sound is sickening, a solid crack-thud. Grif immediately goes still. He crumples to the ground._

_Simmons can't move._

_"One of you idiots give me some cover fire!" Simmons can hear Sarge yelling over the comms. Caboose turns around and Freckles makes quick work of the two men. Sarge leans over Grif's unconscious form and quickly checks for bleeding. Grif's head has a nasty gash in it. Sarge curses under his breath and hoists him up onto his back. The pelican is right outside now, ready to pick them up. Lopez got the door open. All Simmons can do is watch as Sarge practically tosses Grif into the pelican._

_Simmons takes a step forward, ready to jump into the pelican and make sure Grif is okay, but he hears Sarge tell the pilot to leave and get him to Dr. Grey ASAP. The pelican starts to leave and Simmons wants to go with them, but a hand on his shoulder stops him in his tracks. "Simmons, there could still be more of Hargrove's forces. We need you here," Donut says. And he's right. They need to make sure no one gets away. They need to bring them to justice._

_So as much as it pains him to do so, Simmons turns away and follows Donut and Lopez down the hall to scour the ship and hopefully find Hargrove himself. And the whole time, his mind is occupied by a single thought. Over and over, "Is he okay? Is he okay? Is he okay?"_

* * *

 

Simmons drops everything and comes running once he gets word that Grif has woken up. It's been thirteen days since it happened. Thirteen days since they sent Hargrove to prison. Thirteen days since he became a planet-wide hero. Thirteen days of rebuilding. Thirteen days without Grif to laugh with him. He's been in and out of consciousness the whole time he's been in the hospital but never for more than ten minutes. Simmons is overjoyed at the news. His mind has been in overdrive lately, thinking up horrible scenarios, most of them involving Grif dying in his sleep.

Simmons hopes that seeing Grif will assuage his fears and he can get a proper night's sleep. He passes Palomo and Jensen in the hall. She waves at him and after an awkward moment, she remembers to salute to her captain. Simmons waves back and smiles at her forgetfulness. He almost misses the door. New Armonia is still confusing to him and he barely knows where everything is. Not to mention it's nowhere near complete. There are boxes and unusual bits of machinery and weapons lining the halls day and night, the storage closets have been repurposed into bedrooms but they still contain everything that's being stored. It's a mess, but the Feds and News say it feels like home.

Grif's hospital room is just like every other one Simmons has ever been in. Everything is quiet except for the soft whirring and beeping of various machines. And there, on the only bed in the room is Grif. Dexter Grif, the most precious person in his life. He's sitting up, his eyes wide with curiosity. Dr. Grey is talking to him with her soft, lilting voice. Simmons spares a split second to try and decipher the jumble of emotions he feels.

Relief, because Grif is okay. Happiness, because Grif is okay! Discontent, because ... On second thought, that isn't the right word. He's straight up pissed off. Grif had gotten himself hurt because he was being stupid and decided to **take off his helmet.** _But now isn't the time to berate him about his unsafe habits,_ Simmons thinks. _Now is the time to just be happy he's alright._

"Oh my god, you're okay!" Simmons shouts.

He tears his helmet off and tosses it to the ground without a second thought, running to Grif's bedside and almost catching him in a hug before remembering he still has armor on. He leaves some space between them and gets a good look at Grif. Dexter Grif, the post precious person in his life. Grif looks worse for wear. It's definitely not the worst shape Simmons has seen him in, but it's bad. He has dark circles under his eyes, ones that could rival Wash's. Scratches and bruises pepper his skin. Dark locks of hair spill over his shoulders, making him look like he hasn't showered in weeks. There's a thick bandage wrapped around his head.

"Uh..." Grif mumbles when Simmons takes off his gloves and clasps his hands around Grif's.

"I missed you, you asshole!" Simmons exclaims, turning his head away from Grif. He suddenly wishes he still had his helmet on so he could hide whatever emotion must be showing. "I thought you were going to die!" he shouts.

A confused frown etches itself in Grif's face. He tilts his head slightly. "Yeah, who are you?"

Simmons falters for a moment. His artificial heart starts freaking out.

"I-it's _me,_ Grif," he says. "Simmons? Your best friend?" With every word, Grif starts to look more confused.

Simmons can feel his breath getting shallow, and tears prickling his eyes.

"It's me..." he says, almost like a plea. Why is he so scared? Why is he about to cry? Grif shakes his head. "I'm sorry, I- I don't remember." His eyebrows are furrowed in concentration, like he's really trying to remember. Simmons can feel every bone in his body tense up.

Simmons looks down at their hands and gives Grif's a little squeeze.

"You don't remember me at all?" he asks. His voice is quieter than he wanted, quaking with fear.

"No." Grif shakes his head slightly, looking apologetic.

"Are you sure?" Simmons asks. He earns a slightly more annoyed but still perplexed look from Grif.

"Yes, I'm sure." Simmons tries again.

"Are you really really su-"

 _"I DON'T REMEMBER WHO YOU ARE, OKAY?"_ Grif shouts.

He looks confused and tired and Simmons never meant to make him angry. He never does. Simmons flinches away from him, startled by his tone. Grif... He doesn't remember? It has to be a joke, right? There's no way Grif got amnesia or something from... Hitting his head against a doorway... Right? Simmons tightens his grip on Grif's hand.

"I- what? What do you mean?"

Simmons knows it's not a joke. As stupid as Grif can be, he'd never toy with Simmons' emotions willingly. He really... really doesn't remember. The realization hits him like a brick to the face suddenly it's hard to breathe. Simmons lets go of Grif's hand and it's probably a more violent movement than he wanted. Dr. Grey holds up her datapad and speaks in an even softer voice.

"He received quite a bit of head trauma from the impact. If he had had his helmet on, it might have only given him a slight bruise. But-"

She meets Simmons' eyes and gives him a sympathetic gaze, "-He wasn't wearing his helmet. The blow from the rifle was enough to give him a concussion, but the impact from the doorway is much more... Troubling."

Dr. Grey looks back down at her datapad and pulls up another chart.

"The sharp edge punctured his skin and did severe damage to his head. It- along with the rifle- He has-" She glances back up at Simmons. He's shaking now. He knows what's coming. He’s watched enough movies to know she's going to say that Grif has amnesia and that she's going to do whatever she can to help him get his memories back. She's going to tell him that it's okay, except that it isn't. It isn't okay, because the most precious person in his life _doesn’t remember who he is._

He doesn't need to hear it. Simmons draws a short, pained breath and he's out of the room in a second. He doesn't mean to, but he slams the door behind him. His shoulders slump as he falls to the ground and he doesn't even try to stop the tears that cascade down his cheeks like a waterfall. He doesn't know why he's able to cry out of both eyes, given one is mechanical, but that's something that he'd talk about with- with Grif. And Dexter Grif doesn't remember who he is. His breathing is starting to get louder, his blood is rushing in his ears.

Simmons chokes out silent sobs and tries to dry his tears with the sleeves of his kevlar undersuit. His metal hand collides with the side of his face and sends a dull, jarring **clack** through the hall. Why is he freaking out so much? Why does it hurt so much? He almost doesn't notice when the rest of the Reds and Blues come down the hall. Donut stops just short of the door with a wild look in his eyes. He looks scared. After all, who else could possibly have Simmons in such a state? He throws open the door to Grif's room and the rest clamor in behind him. Carolina throws him a concerned gaze as she passes.

He tries not to eavesdrop. They gave him his privacy, he should do the same. But the sound of Caboose’s laugh is enough to have him on his feet and at the door in a second. Fortunately, there’s a window on the door. Unfortunately, he peeks through it just in time to see Grif get a hug from Donut and Caboose. He sees them all, even Sarge, with relief in their eyes and he hears Grif say “I missed you guys,” a huge smile on his face. Donut finally releases him and asks why Simmons is out in the hall.

Grif says he doesn't know _~~who Donut is talking about.~~_

Simmons doesn't even pretend not to care when he realizes that Grif is answering them, talking to them as if not a minute has passed. He doesn't even pretend not to notice how his chest constricts when he realizes that Grif remembers everyone except... him. He remembers everyone except _Simmons._ How is that fair? He doesn't even pretend not to be angry and afraid and hurt when the thought creeps up on him like shadows.

_What if he never remembers?_

Simmons knows a bit about amnesia. He's read plenty of books on the subject. He knows that in most cases, the victims recover their memories. He also knows that sometimes they don't. Sometimes they're left with permanent gaps in their memory and live the rest of their lives never knowing what they forgot.

Simmons gets up off the floor and starts running. He doesn't care where, he just needs to get away from all the sounds of laughter. He's vaguely aware that he's getting weird looks from the people he runs past. Ones of confusion and _pity,_ but he doesn't give a shit. He runs and he runs and he doesn't stop until he's standing in front of the room that he and Grif share- um, _shared._ There is no way Grif is going to want to share a room with... a stranger, Simmons thinks. He was reluctant to share with Simmons when they first met, and now- now it's probably going to be the same.

He decides to get it over with and opens the door slowly. The left side of the room is neat and organized. There isn't much, however. Just a few mechanical manuals, random books he picked up on supply runs, a box of clothes for the rare times when they don't wear armor, his extensive Star Trek collection. They all fit inside a single crate and he carries it out of the room and down the hall to an empty one which was supposed to be Lopez's until they realized he didn't need a room.

Simmons drops the crate on the floor and throws himself onto the bed. A long-suffering sigh escapes his lips and he tries not to start crying again. He shouldn't. It's not going to help anything. It's just going to make him look weaker than he already does. Would Grif cry if it was Simmons that had amnesia and remembered everyone expect him? He probably would. He would cry and then deny it if anyone asked. He would say he didn't care. He would hide behind his lazy facade and laugh with the others and destroy himself from the inside because that's the kind of person he is.

Simmons doesn't want to move for the rest of the day. He wants to stay on the bed in the dark while everyone else celebrates that fact that Grif is okay. It's funny, Simmons thinks. They think it's okay because they're not the ones who just lost the most precious person in their life.

* * *

 

Simmons has a lot of time to think while he's laying in the dark. He thinks about Grif. He thinks about how much of his life involves Grif. They bicker back and forth, talk about stupid things and do stupid things and it’s great because he knows Grif like the back of his hand and Grif knows him like he knows the ingredients list on a pack of Oreos.

He knows that Grif likes it when Simmons cooks. Sure, he also knows how to cook, but he likes to eat more than he likes to cook. And Simmons not so secretly loves the praise he gets every evening when Grif sits down at the table and comments on how delicious everything looks. He knows that Grif is just as much of a nerd as he is, but does a better job of hiding it.

He knows that Grif likes to have his hair brushed, but he does it himself most of the time because he’s embarrassed to ask anyone else to do it. He knows that Grif gets scared just like everyone else and that he calms down when Simmons grabs his hand and holds on like his life depends on it. He knows that Grif eats when he’s stressed and he eats when he’s happy, or sad, or frustrated, or anxious, or bored.

Simmons knows a lot about Grif, but now... It seems like he knows nothing. Because Simmons without Grif doesn't make sense. Grif without Simmons doesn't make sense. They're a package deal. They are a duo, attached at the hip, so goddamn close that everyone else thinks they're married. They are two halves of a whole, and when one half forgets, the other crumbles into dust.

Simmons hates thinking about it like that. He hates making it seem like they're never going back to what they were. But he can't help it. His mind seems to have subconsciously accepted the fact that Grif and Simmons was now just Grif... And Simmons. It only happened a few hours ago and he's already resigned to his fate. He's already accepted it unconditionally. _What a fucking loser,_ he thinks. _But it all happened so fast, and I was feeling so many different things at once, of course I'm going to overreact. That's just like me, isn't it. Always overreacting._

* * *

 

It turns out, two hours is all one needs to make a terrifying realization about oneself.

Simmons rolls over in bed and covers his face with a pillow. He knows a lot about himself too. He knows that he gets emotional, especially when it involves Grif. He knows that it makes him feel weird thinking about the fact that 40% of his body is now grafted to the most important person in his life.

And... He knows that he'd do almost anything for Dexter Grif.

He'd take a bullet for that man if it meant he'd be okay. Simmons knows that Grif was the first person he'd ever considered as a real friend. He knows that when it comes down to it... He loves Dexter Grif. He loves his smile, he loves his laugh, he loves the way his mismatched eyes reflect the afternoon light and the way his hair always finds some way to look like he'd just woken up.

Simmons loves when Grif absentmindedly runs his fingers along the pale skin grafts on the left side of his face and the way those same skin grafts show his blush so much more prominently. He loves the way he so adamantly denies the fact that they're married and how he teases him about being a nerd and always knows when Simmons needs a hug.

He loves everything about Dexter Grif.

Simmons opens his eyes and covers his face with his hands. He starts to laugh, quietly and mostly at himself. Fuck, why did it take him so damn long to admit it? It's so obvious. Simmons loves him. That’s why he’s been feeling ready to tear apart at the seams. He loves him so much it hurts. It hurts to know he's been forgotten. It hurts to be reminded that it could all be over in the blink of an eye. It hurts to sit down and put things in perspective and acknowledge the fact that they've danced with death too many times and their luck is bound to run out at some point.

 _Maybe it has. Maybe that's what this is,_ Simmons thinks. _Maybe we've finally run out of luck._ Simmons sits up in bed and pulls his knees up to his chin. He puts his back to the wall and glares at nothing in particular.

Someone knocks on his door about three hours after he secludes himself in the dark room. Simmons doesn't want to open it. He doesn't want anyone to see him so torn up over Grif. Torn up and confused _~~and in love.~~_

"Simmons? Are you okay?" a voice asks. He recognizes it as Carolina. What could _she_ possibly want?

"Dr. Grey told me about Grif's... Selective amnesia," Carolina says. Oh. Fucking fantastic. Simmons gets out of bed like it's that last thing he's ever going to do and stomps over to the door. He opens it as calmly as he can manage and glares at Carolina.

"AND? What? Did you come here to rub it in my face or something?" he asks.

His voice cracks and he immediately regrets ever opening his mouth. Carolina shakes her head. She's good at keeping calm.

"No. I came here to tell you that no one else knows yet, but they're starting to realize something’s up. It's only a matter of time before someone mentions that Grif hasn't asked where you are yet."

Simmons visibly deflates. He can feel more tears threatening his eyes.

"I don't want to see him," Simmons whispers, even though he knows it's a lie. He really wants to see him. He wants to grab him by the shoulders and shout "Remember me! Remember the past thirteen years of our lives! Remember how much I care about you! Remember how much I _love_ you!" He wants it to be okay.

Carolina reaches out a hand and puts it awkwardly on Simmons' shoulder.

"You don't have to go if you don't want to, but Donut got really upset when Grif said he didn't know why you were out in the hall. He hasn't stopped frowning for four hours, and I'm starting to think he might be stuck like that," She says, trying to lighten the mood. She does a bad job. It only makes Simmons feel worse.

"Join us if you feel like it, he have cake," Carolina adds. She pats his shoulder a few times and gives him a tight-lipped smile.

"Hey... It'll be alright," she assures him. Simmons knows that isn't true, but he nods anyway and closes the door when Carolina turns to leave.

As Simmons falls asleep that night, he realizes that in the ten odd years that he's been in love with him, Simmons never once told Grif. He wakes up with tears soaking his pillow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uhhh so I'm finally posting this. I've only got a few drafted chapters but I need to make myself write this so... here it is. I hope you like it, don't forget to leave a comment and kudos! ❤️❤️❤️


	2. Help! Dexter Grif Has Selective Retrograde Amnesia!

When Simmons wakes up from his mostly sleepless night with his thin sheets wrapped around his waist, the first thing he notices is how quiet it is. He's not used to it being so quiet. He's used to the soft, even snoring from Grif across the room. But there's no Grif in the room Simmons escaped to. It's just him and his thoughts.

Just him and his intrusive, depressing thoughts and his sudden realization that he has a crush on his best friend and probably has for a while. Simmons drags himself into a sitting position and puts his back against the wall. He took his prosthetics off the night before and evidently didn't put much thought into it. He sees them laying carelessly on the floor and has a sudden urge to just stay in bed all day.

It would be easier. No interactions with anyone (and especially not Grif), no annoying metal limbs that like to stab him accidentally and pinch his skin. Most importantly, no explaining himself. He doesn't have to tell anyone why he looks like he's been crying all night.

What would he say anyway? "Oh, yeah. I've totally been crying because my best friend forgot all about me and I also just realized that I'm in love with him. No big deal." Yeah. Sure. Simmons pulls the covers over his head and lets out a groan that sounds more like a hiss. He decides a day in sounds good. It's not like he'll be much use anyway.

No one had asked for his help in the past nine days. And that's out of the thirteen that he's been back. The people of Chorus have rebuilding all under control. All he has to do is show his face every once in a while and remind his squad that they still have a captain.

Simmons is in the process of idly picking a thread on his sheet when he hears a knock at his door. It isn't Sarge, that's for sure. His knock sounds like he's trying to bring down the whole building. Donut doesn't knock on doors. Lopez doesn't care about anyone. Grif... It isn't Grif. He always knocks twice and whoever it is knocks three times.

And then someone clears their throat and starts talking.

"Simmons?" Oh. It's Carolina. That is- It's a bit surprising.

"Dr. Grey said she wants to see you." And then there's silence. Simmons can't tell if she's still there or if she left. Damn her sneaky freelancer skills.

"Stop ignoring me and get your fax-ass over there," Carolina says suddenly, making Simmons nearly jump out if his skin. He makes a tiny noise and crawls to the end of the bed to put on his prosthetics. He gets dressed in record time, and opens the door quickly. Carolina isn't there. Shit. He really needs to learn when to tell if she leaves.

Simmons figures he doesn't need armor, providing he's walking about 1200 feet and really, who would want to shoot him? There are easier and more humiliating ways to kill him. Like give his best friend amnesia. That's killing him slowly and painfully. The short walk to Dr. Grey's office is agonizing nonetheless. His prosthetics decide that today is a perfect day to be as uncomfortable as possible.

Simmons knocks on Dr. Grey's door and waits for an answer. After a second of silence, he hears a cheery and muffled 'it's open' and turns the knob, cracking the door open and peeking inside her new office. Dr. Grey is rearranging medical files behind her desk. She turns around after Simmons doesn't enter and perks up a bit.

"Ah, Captain Simmons. Come in, have a seat," she says, motioning to the uncomfortable looking chair sitting in front of her salvaged desk.

Simmons slips inside her office, closes the door behind him and walks stiffly to the desk. He sits down slowly and clasps his hands tightly in his lap. He looks down at his feet, the ratty red sneakers standing out against the surprisingly clean floor.

"Are your prosthetics giving you any trouble?" Dr. Grey asks. Simmons snaps his head up to meet her eyes.

"N-no," he says. His voice sounds rough. Like he's been screaming all night. Which he hopes, for the sake of everyone in New Armonia, that he hasn't. Dr. Grey nods skeptically.

Simmons feels bad lying to her. He knows she can probably see right through him, but he doesn't want to get her distracted. Clearly, she wanted to see him about Grif. And nothing is going to get in the way of that, not even inflamed nerves and phantom pains.

"Well. If they do, let me know. Can't have you running around with creaky limbs, Captain," she says with a smile.

It's genuine, Simmons can tell. The way her eyes crinkle slightly and the slight tilt to her head. He spent so much time with her in the past years, he feels like he's known her his whole life. Her dark brown eyes flick down to the datapad on her desk. Her smile fades.

"Let's cut to the chase. No need to sugar-coat it, right?" he says, clasping her hands in front of her and looking back up at Simmons.

Simmons gives her a shrug-nod and wishes he could leave. He hasn't eaten yet and lord knows he gets cranky and emotional when he's hungry. Dr. Grey sighs quietly and gives him a stare.

"Captain Grif has selective retrograde amnesia. That means he's lost some memories from his past. In his case, it seems that he's lost all or most of his memories... That he associates with you," she says with all the sympathy she can muster.

Simmons lets a moment of silence fall before he nods slowly, biting his lip until he's sure it's bleeding and cursing himself for the prickle of tears he can feel in his eyes. Why did Sarge have to leave his tear ducts in when he picked him apart and put him back together?

Dr. Grey studies his minutely shaking hands and speaks again.

"I am a genius, but even I don't claim to know everything about the human brain. It's an enigma, in so many ways. I've only ever seen a case like this once before and it turned out alright," she says, her attempt at reassuring him falling flat. His gaze is still heavy, like he's trying to make his shoes disappear.

Dr. Grey turns her datapad to face Simmons and encourages him to look at it. He doesn't, so she continues anyway.

"Here's what you need to know. Every single case of retrograde amnesia I've worked with has recovered an average of 99.4% of their memories," Dr. Grey says, keeping her voice optimistic.

She pulls up a chart and taps a section of it labeled 'Diet'.

"And to aid with that Grif needs to abstain from alcohol, any sugary foods and of course, smoking. I trust you can keep him away from those?" She asks, as if she talking to a child. She might as well be.

Simmons is grown man, for fuck’s sake. Why is he getting so torn up over this? Grif is going to be fine.

Simmons seems to regain a bit more life. He sits up straighter and takes his eyes off the floor. He nods firmly but doesn't say anything. Dr. Grey smiles.

"Good. Now, his coordination may be off. Don't panic, it's normal for anyone with amnesia. Just don't let him fall over. It's very important that he _not_ sustain another head injury. It could worsen his condition," she explains.

Simmons is suddenly glad that he's sitting down, because he probably would have nearly fainted at that. Simmons thinks about how frequently Grif hit his head against things and has a brief thought about baby-proofing the whole city.

"Simmons, are you alright?" Dr. Grey asks, noticing how his shoulders tense up suddenly.

Simmons nods quickly a few times too many. Dr. Grey gives him a wary look but takes his silent word... for now.

"Good. I'm also scheduling him for twice weekly cognitive therapy sessions. We're just going to sit down and talk. But it would help if he has someone to talk to who _shares_ his lost memories. He needs someone to remind him of what he's missing."

Simmons reacts to her words terrifyingly quickly. He sits forward, his mouth open slightly to speak. He doesn't want to- he isn't ready to face Grif yet. He isn't going to sit in on a therapy session. Fuck, that'll be too much for him. To see just how much he forgot. No. Not yet.

Before he can speak, Dr. Grey holds up her hand sharply.

"No, don't interrupt. You need to be with him. Pretend nothing's wrong. Make references, say stupid things, talk about your past, just don't leave him alone," she urges.

Simmons sits back and lets his shoulders slump. He isn't going to leave Grif alone. He won't ever do that. They've been together for so long. He isn't about to abandon him.

But he can't just jump back into things.

Why is this so hard? While Simmons internally struggles with himself, he almost misses what Dr. Grey says next.

"He needs you. That much is painfully clear. He needs you to be right there next to him and say 'Hey, do you remember when...' Can you do that, Richard? Not for me, god knows this isn't for me, but do it for the man you love."

He nearly jumps out of his seat at that. How does she know? Then again, she is one of the most perceptive people he's met and, well... It's probably pretty obvious so it isn't much of a surprise. Hell, it's taken him this long to realize it himself, he wouldn't bat an eyelash if his entire team (and Blue Team too) knew.

Simmons lets out a slow breath and nods again. And he finally finds his voice.

"Thank you, Emily. I- I'm happy that you're doing this," is all he can think to say. Not exactly as eloquent as he would like, but he can never get his words to come out exactly right. Nevertheless, Dr. Grey gives him another of her genuine smiles.

"Of course. It's my job," she reminds him. And, tapping her fingers on her desk thoughtfully, "...If you need someone to vent to, I'm sure any of your friends would be happy to listen, but my door is open too," she says.

Simmons fiddles with the hem of his shirt for a moment.

"Alright. Thank you," he said. His voice is quiet, just to be sure it didn't crack. He's positive he might burst into tears at any moment.

He gets up from the chair as quickly as he can, trying not to limp at the shooting pain coming from his prosthetic. Dr. Grey waves to him.

"Have a good day, Simmons. I'll talk to the rest of your team later today, fill them in on things," she assures him. Simmons nods. Shit, his neck is going to start hurting if he does any more of that.

Dr. Grey speaks up again when his hand is on the doorknob.

"And please... Don't hesitate to come to me if you're experiencing any uncomfort. It's no trouble at all for me. It is my job, after all. To make sure you're healthy." Simmons can feel her smiling again and he's tempted to do the same.

Ah, why the hell not? He turns around and gives her a smile, one that Grif once said was 'as bright as the fucking sun, tone it down'.

Simmons leaves Dr. Grey's office feeling better and worse. Now he knows that Grif is probably going to get all his memories back. And he feels better for just having smiled. But he's going to have to be the one to tell Grif that he can't eat sugary things or smoke or drink. That's going to be a nightmare. But it's a nightmare that can wait until tomorrow. He really just wants to have a day in.

* * *

 

Simmons sleeps for the next four hours. After awaking slowly and somewhat refreshed, he remembers that he hasn't eaten all day. He checks his clock and, noting that it's late enough for him to miss the lunch rush, decides to head to the cafeteria and get something to eat.

He does miss the lunch rush. The cafeteria is practically deserted. He can hear his own heavy footsteps echoing off the high ceilings. Luckily, there's still some food left over and he helps himself to the potatoes and beans. They are only slightly warm, most of the heat having left them hours ago.

Simmons spots his squad huddled around a table in the corner of the room. He hadn't noticed them before, they were being so quiet. There's no one else around and he really doesn't feel like being alone, so towards his squad he starts walking.

As he approaches the table, half the faces turn to look at him. He wants to curl up and hide from their gazes. Who's idea was it to give _him_ a squad of girls?

"Lieutenant Jensen," Simmons says with a nod as he sits down across from her. He silently thanks Freckles that he's able to speak without his voice cracking.

Jensen gives him a braces-filled smile and glances down at his tray.

"Oh. Did you not get food earlier, Captain?" she asks innocently. Simmons shrugs.

"I wasn't hungry." He's silent for a moment before realizing that his squad is extremely perceptive and he'd only embarrass himself by lying to their faces.

"I- actually, I forgot," he mumbles.

The tall, scary girl who plays volleyball- he still can't remember her name and he's scared to ask- nods knowingly.

"Yeah, I get it. Sometimes I forget meals too. But my squad helps me remember," she says, flinging her arms around the two sitting on either side of her.

"If you want, we can remind you too, Captain!" Jensen pipes up. Simmons shakes his head.

"N-no. You don't have to. I- it's," he stops. He takes. Breath and tries again.

"It's not something that happens regularly. I usually can't go without meals unless I _absolutely_ have to. And I... I eat a lot anyway," he says, trailing off at the end. He doesn't eat nearly as much as Grif. But enough to make some people stare and no doubt wonder 'where the hell does a guy so skinny put all that food?'

The girls fall silent for a while and let Simmons eat in silence. Their frequent glances don't go unnoticed, however. They're clearly restless and tired of staying quiet so Simmons puts down his fork and asks "What?" to the table as a whole. Half his squad stays silent and the other half gives him sympathetic looks.

"Dr. Grey told us what happened," Jensen says, eventually. Her voice is quiet and soft like she's afraid Simmons will be mad. He isn't. If anything, he's happy that they know. Now he doesn't have to make up an excuse when they ask him what's wrong. He's never really been good at lying.

Simmons takes a look at his squad, all in various degrees of sadness, and lets out a breath. It's time to be a Captain.

"Don't worry," he says with conviction.

"It'll be alright." He knows he should try and be positive but fuck, he sounds so unconvincing. The girls know it too. That he's trying to convince himself more than them. Like maybe if he says it enough it'll be true. But he doesn't know if it's going to be okay. That thought will keep nagging at him and it won't stop, because that's just how Simmons is.

"Are you okay, Captain?" Jensen asks and the by tone of her voice Simmons realizes that she's asked once before and he didn't answer. Too caught up in his own head, he thinks. With some effort, he manages to nod.

Jensen's not stupid, however.

"What's on your mind?" she asks.

"No one here's gonna judge you," Volleyball adds. Simmons shrugs. He tries to think of the right words, the perfect sentence that will tell them exactly what he means, but he can't get it out.

All he says is "I don't know what to do," and his voice sounds so defeated that Jensen hops up from her seat and runs over to him, attacking him with the second most tender hug he's ever received.

Apparently, Jensen has crossed some sort of threshold too and doesn't think she has to bother keeping her composure any longer.

"I'm so sorry, you must be feeling horrible! I have no idea what you're going through but I wanna help!" she wails, clinging to his shoulders like a lifeline. Simmons tenses up and tries to get her to let go.

He tries to tell her that "Lieutenant, I'm fine," but Jensen beats him to it.

"If you ever need to talk we're always here and we'll always listen and if you want advice I'm sure one of us will have something useful to say," Jensen rambles on.

"All I'm trying to say is that you are our leader but we're your squad. You're here for us and we're here for you. That's what a team does," she says giving him another smile.

Simmons has probably gotten more smiles today than in a while month back in Blood Gulch. He finally manages to pry Jensen's hands off his shoulders and processes her words. His girls are just too nice. They give him his space (most of the time), that can always tell when something's wrong and he's gotten much better at talking to them recently.

And they wouldn't tell another soul anything he says. He's heard them swear confidentiality to each other before. So what's the harm in spilling his whole story to them?

Simmons motions for Jensen to sit back down.

"Thank you. All of you. It-" he can't get through the whole thank you speech because, perfect timing by the way, Grif walks up to the table with a bag of cinnamon apple flavored animal crackers and an irritated expression. He throws Simmons an unreadable glance but doesn't say anything to him. He turns to Jensen.

"Palomo told Matthews to tell Bitters to tell me to tell you to meet him by that weird bird fountain on southside," he says.

"He said he has something to... Tell you." And with that, he starts walking away, only sparing a glance behind him once to look back at Simmons with that same expression. Jensen looks surprised for a second before curiosity takes over.

"O-okay..." She stands up from the table and takes a step away before turning around.

"Captain Simmons? It's going to be okay," she assures him with a small smile before jogging out of the cafeteria. Simmons pushes his tray away and slams his forehead on the table. He lets out a long-suffering groan and bangs his forehead a couple more times for good measure.

What kind of look was that?

* * *

 

Simmons doesn't get another chance to talk with his squad for a few days. He gets dragged around the city for various reasons. Mostly for architecture advice or to solve math problems or just because... They want to see him. To know that he still exists. Like Donut.

Donut spent most of his time helping Orange Squad set up the primary food store which he insisted should be a grocery store, even though no one in the city (not even President Kimball) wants to deal with setting up a currency just yet. Donut 'accidentally' runs into Simmons one morning and drags him across the city to the food store because he had gotten a new shipment of rice and beans and _’someone_ needs to Tetris it all onto the shelves, Simmons.'

And that's how Simmons finds himself picking up boxes of dry food and handing them to Caboose who is trying his best to put them exactly where Simmons asks. He keeps forgetting which way is left, but he's done a good job of not dropping anything yet. It's somehow simultaneously an okay job and the worst job imaginable. It's okay because it gives him something to go, but the man standing five feet away from him digging through a box looking for snacks makes his life hell.

Because no matter how badly Simmons wants to joke about the fact that Donut used 'Tetris' as a verb earlier... He can't. Because that's not the kind of thing you tell to a stranger and Dexter Grif is practically a stranger. So Simmons continues instructing Caboose and trying his hardest not to look at Grif because it's just going to distract him. No matter how much he wants to get that annoying lock of hair out of his face or scold him for eating their food supply.

He can't do that anymore.


	3. Almost Overwhelming, Nearly Too Much

Simmons' hand hovers just above the door as he tries for a fifth time to knock. His hand shakes. He lowers it slowly.

"Goddamnit, Simmons, suck it up," he tells himself.

The hallway is deserted and quiet and the fluorescent lights lining the ceiling make it look like a Star Wars set. Simmons turns back to the door and screws his eyes shut. He knocks three times.

Dexter Grif opens the door a tiny bit slower than Simmons would like. Simmons doesn't mention that, of course. He simply adjusts his glasses and chirps a nervous little "Hey Grif."

That phrase is basically an impulse. As familiar to him as "I have Ophidiophobia." Grif stares at him for a tiny bit longer than he would like.

"Hey Simmons," he says. Grif says it like he would say "Sarge, you're the best and I mean it." He's holding onto the door like he'll blow away on the slightest breeze which, come on, is impossible. Grif weighs at fewest, 200 pounds. Simmons had weighed him at some point. Probably when they had an _actual_ scale.

Simmons fidgets needlessly.

"Y-yeah, you remember my name?" he asks. Goddamnit, his voice is shaking. He must seem like such a loser. Grif shrugs. The casual movement is undermined by the way he's still holding on to the door so hard his knuckles are white.

"Kind of? Everyone's been talking about you a lot, so it was hard to ignore," Grif says. He shuffles back a few steps, a silent invitation and Simmons mirrors him, taking small steps into Grif's room (that used to be his too) and closing the door quietly.

"T-talking about me? What did they say?" Simmons frets.  
He actively has to remind himself not to ball his hands into fists. They get uncomfortably sweaty (just the right one now). He flexes his fingers quickly and glances around the room. Unsurprisingly, not a thing has changed but someone has moved his empty bed out.

Grif walks backwards to the edge of his bed, covertly kicks a few old snack wrappers under it and sits down heavily.

"They just said you're a nerd who likes to kiss Sarge's ass and told me not to ask about your robot bits," he says, gesturing to Simmons' arm with his chin. Simmons looks down at the nicked and battered metal plating that just barely covers tangles of wiring and titanium bones.

"Why would they say that?" he wonders aloud.

He is proud of his cyborg-ness. It makes him cooler. Plus, he had made the decision in a haze of adrenaline and fear. There's no going back, he might as well embrace it. It earns him some glances of awe when he carries an entire supply crate in one hand.

Grif kicks his socked feet along the ground lazily.

“I dunno, Donut said it's because you have dad issues or something," he mumbles. Simmons freezes. What?

“What?” he whispers.

“I meant why would they say that about my robot- I do _not_ have dad issues, fatass!” He jabs a finger at Grif, who looks like he's been slapped. Simmons pauses. He lowers his hand. Grif lowers his eyes.

“Sorry.” _For yelling. For showing up unannounced. For not making sure you stayed safe._

_For everything._

Simmons’ apology carries more weight than he hopes Grif understands. Grif looks up at him slowly. Simmons makes eye-contact for a split second. One deep brown eye, one his own grey-green. Both beautiful beyond measure on that soft brown face-

“I can leave now if you want," Simmons blurts out.

He whips his head around to face the opposite wall. His artificial heart is pounding in his ears and he's never been more thankful for a dark room than right now because he's sure his face is bright red. He takes a deep breath, stabilizes himself. He doesn't dare turn around, even when he knows Grif has stood up from his bed and is walking across the room.

Simmons flinches when Grif puts a hand on his shoulder and it makes things so much worse. Grif lets go of him and puts a noticeable extra 7.43 centimeters between them (thanks, high-tech cyborg eye).

“So what happened?” he asks after Simmons doesn't say anything. Grif wants to know what happened. By asking. No beating around the bush, no cryptic yet just barely understandable metaphors.

Simmons is still facing the wall and suddenly doesn't want to be here anymore. He wants to be somewhere else thinking about non-amnesia Grif, who knows how to ask questions without asking them and talk about things while clearly _not talking about things._ Furthermore, he knows non-amnesia Grif will never notice his- his crush and Simmons can live happily with things being exactly how they've always been ~~and always should be.~~

Amnesia Grif doesn't know about their unspoken constant state of friends-but-maybe-a-tiny-bit-more? Amnesia Grif can reciprocate Simmons’ unsolicited but very real feelings. All the more reason to leave while he has the chance. He can, in theory, just walk out the door. But what will that do to their already paper-thin relationship? Simmons can also make Grif make him leave. He really shouldn't do that. He does it anyway.

"You got run over by a tank," Simmons says, cold and blunt.

Grif chokes out a laugh. "I- what?" he asks incredulously. Simmons crosses his arms.

“I said you got run over by a tank,” he repeats, enunciating every word. Grif stays silent, a small frown wrinkling his brow.

“I-” he runs a hand through his thick, dark hair.

“I don't remember that,” he says. Simmons turns around and stares. Of course he doesn't. Grif doesn't remember anything having to do with him. Simmons seems to love reminding himself of that every single hour. What else is he going to do, _move on? Get over it?_ Ridiculous.

“Figures,” Simmons mumbles.

Grif runs a hand over his face, his fingers tracing the scarring that connects him to Simmons. He stops with his hand over his eyes.

“Wait, did you come into my room for a reason?” he asks.

Oh, so now he can't just visit because he feels like it? What a joy it would be to tell Grif how much of a hypocrite he is. But that'll just confuse him because, chances are, Grif won't remember the countless times he invaded Simmons’ room in the middle of the night to talk about stupid things.

Simmons, arms still crossed, sets his jaw and tells himself that under no circumstances is he allowed to cry in front of Grif. No matter how much he secretly enjoyed those nights.

"Yes,” he eventually manages. “I came here for…” Simmons racks his brain. He's sure there was a reason he came. It was important. It was-

"Dr. Grey said you have to stay away from alcohol and smoking,” Simmons says. Grif's shoulders gain a significant slump.

"That sucks,” he says, already resigned to his fate. He wanders back over to his bed and leaves Simmons still standing in the corner.

A few seconds pass, which feel like years thanks to the constant feeling of awkwardness Simmons exudes during every waking moment, and Grif looks like he's waiting for something. Probably because Simmons has his mouth open. _Oh shit, Simmons has his mouth open._ He closes it, his teeth clack against each other. Wait. There was something else he was going to say. Dr. Grey told him Grif had to...

"You can't have sugary foods." Simmons almost regrets what he said. It's silent for far too long and then all he hears is “What?”

The amount of time which it takes Grif to get across the room barely registers for Simmons, a cyborg with a literally perfect internal clock and a twelve-digit display permanently in his vision. Simmons jumps, because Grif is almost taller than him and he's much bigger, all broad shoulders and biceps. Grif is standing not six inches from Simmons looking like he'd love nothing more than to snap Simmons’ neck.

Simmons is absolutely certain he can.

He won't ever say he's been scared of Grif. He doesn't want to ever say that he's been scared of Grif because Grif is an idiot and a nerd (even if he says otherwise) and his aim is only decent and he fusses about his hair and Simmons will never know how he keeps his muscle because he never exercises. Grif is his best friend. He should never be scared of his best friend _~~he knows that now, after too many lies.~~_ Simmons tries not to lie to himself too often because then he loses the line between reality and his ideals. Simmons doesn't say he's scared of Grif because that might make it worse.

He can barely slip under Grif’s arm, which is leaning against the wall, and make it out the door on wobbly feet before Grif is running after him and he starts to shout something but gets the door slammed in his face. Simmons is breathing too heavily for the altitude he's at. He tells himself he's only allowed to hyperventilate at 10,000 feet or higher. His legs give out and he collapses in front of Grif's door, squeezing his eyes shut so tightly he hopes he can crush the image of Grif cornering him with a murderous glare.

* * *

 

Simmons doesn't see Grif for a few days. One one hand it's great. Simmons isn't sure whether or not he'd straight up faint if Grif showed up. On the other hand, he could be dead. There's always that. The impending threat of death. Simmons wonders, over a meal of mashed potatoes, green beans and some kind of spicy sausage, how the reds and blues would have fared if he had died, say, when Church got blown up by Sheila. Simmons stops eating, frowns like the green beans have done him a personal dishonor, and doesn't think about Grif dying.

He's nearly finished with his meal when someone sits down next to him and he almost jumps out of his seat. He turns, more slowly than he wants to, and lets the tension out of his shoulders when he recognizes Carolina’s firey hair and intense gaze. Her smile is new, though. It's not one full of unending affection like the one he's seen her give Wash and Caboose on occasion. The one she's wearing now is empathetic and friendly but it's dulled by the bags under her eyes and the way she bounces her still fully armored leg up and down. Simmons raises his eyebrows.

“Are you okay?” he asks delicately.

He still isn't 100% sure that she's not in a terrible mood. Carolina stops bouncing her leg, which looks like it takes physical effort, and sighs.

“Honestly, I could be better.” Simmons is both surprised at her honesty and dreading what he can only assume is about to be an hour-long talk about feelings or responsibility or training. Carolina shovels a bite of food in her mouth before continuing.

“I'm not getting enough sleep. Kimball has me working double-time to get everyone on track because, no offense to them, a bunch of teenagers have no idea how to create an economy of any kind, much less set up a few stores and warehouses. I've been overseeing most of it along with Wash and the other Reds. But with Grif recovering and you-” Carolina takes a breath and glances over at Simmons.

“Okay, real talk,” Carolina says, switching gears.

“Jensen may or may not have told me that she saw you bolt out of Grif's room the other day like it was on fire.” She takes another bite and lets Simmons sit with that one for a while.

Simmons wants to run. He wants to turn it back on her and ask her why it fucking matters and- Simmons’ eyes lock onto something across the mess hall. Because why wouldn't his brain be wired to pick out Grif amongst a crowd of hungry teenagers?

“He- yeah, so?” Simmons stutters, eyes still following Grif as he wanders around, looking for a table. Carolina glares at him, but Simmons hasn't noticed the way he just talked to her. Simmons, if in his right mind, would never ‘yeah, so’ her. She's Agent Fucking Carolina and Simmons is skittish around girls for some unknown reason. Her eyes zero in on whatever Simmons is looking at and of course it's Grif. She's known them for decent amount of time and actually started caring about them later, but that's beside the point.

Grif and Simmons get this look in their eyes when they stare at each other. Like the whole world may be burning around them but it's fine because they have each other. Carolina has seen that look once before. The first time she met North and South, their very first field mission. Carolina looks between Grif and Simmons with an easy smile, expecting to see them caught in the gaze of the other. But Simmons is frowning, his eyes widened just enough to be in latent fear and Grif hasn't even noticed Simmons staring by the time he spots their mostly empty table and starts making his way toward them.

Simmons snaps his eyes to Carolina and hisses “Help me.”

Carolina is taken aback. Why would Simmons need help from her when he could just- oh. Oh, shit. She's been an idiot. Carolina has completely forgotten about the whole Grif has Amnesia and Doesn't Remember Simmons™ ordeal. And the running out of Grif's room stunt that Simmons pulled. Carolina’s really not been getting any sleep. She awkwardly puts her arm around Simmons’ shoulder and feels him tense up.

“Simmons, how have you been? Would you like to talk about things that are very private?” She asks in a stunted and very unconvincing voice. Simmons catches on quickly, however.

“Uhh, yes, Carolina. I would like to talk about things that are very private.” Simmons glances at Grif.

Grif, being a perfectly reasonable person with selective amnesia, decides to back away from their table and find somewhere else to eat. He doesn't want to interrupt. Simmons relaxes slightly and Carolina withdraws her arm.

“Okay, spill, or I'm letting him sit here,” Carolina says through her teeth. Simmons hangs his head and manages

“He's so big, Carolina.” He misses the sly grin playing across her face but he can hear “bow chicka bow wow” loud and clear.

He doesn't even give her the satisfaction of a disgusted glare, just makes a gagging noise and continues.

“Anyway,” he says loudly.

“He's just- I told Grif that he can't have sugar, Dr. Grey’s words, and he backed me up against a wall and got this look in his eyes like- like Wash gets sometimes. When he's really mad. When he goes all Fellancer Mode. I just don't want to be scared of him like I'm scared of Wash because he's got so much more muscle than I do and if he really wanted he could snap me in half like a toothpick but that's beside the point because I really pissed him off earlier and now he's going to go get himself killed because I-” Carolina cuts him off with a finger to his lips.

“Simmons,” he says. Her tone is chiding and tired and he knows she's done this before.

“You know he's not going to hurt you.” Simmons nods numbly, because he does know. He does, but his mind wants to run through the bad scenarios, apparently.

“Even without all his memories, he is never going to try to hurt you because he knows that you are important. And we'll all remind him of that.” Simmons releases a breath that take all the tension out of him and allows himself a small shadow of a smile.

“Yeah, I know,” he mumbles. Carolina claps him on the back and grins.

“Good.”

“Let me know when you're heading to Emily’s office, she wants me to sit in too,” Carolina calls as she stands up from the table, bringing her tray with her.

Simmons watches her go and the farther away she gets the more his stomach drops. He- he had completely forgotten about Dr. Grey’s therapy session that he clearly needs to be at. He can spare a few minutes more, though, right? Yep. He's not ready yet. The therapy is just as much about him as it is about Grif. Speaking of, Simmons can't see him anymore.

He stands up in his chair and looks out over the sea of tan and white armor, stripes and splatters of different colors and shirts and pants and half the people are in civvies. Simmons feels a swell of nostalgia for the time, a time long ago when he would strip off his armor the moment he set foot in Red Base. He snaps back to reality, almost falls off his chair and focuses on the task at hand.

No orange. Simmons takes his tray and wanders through the mess hall, hoping to catch a glimpse of Grif. He doesn't, and somehow it sets Simmons’ hair on end. A few days of avoiding Grif, wanting to not see him because of some irrational fear or whatever and suddenly Grif leaves the room and that's the worst thing possible.

He made him leave, for fuck’s sake. Simmons feels a pang of remorse for that. He’s probably made Grif's situation worse by loudly asking him to fuck off. Grif probably thinks Simmons doesn't like him, which is the exact fucking opposite. Grif's probably feeling dejected and outcast by his own team and- and Simmons should fix that. He should make it clear the Grif is his friend (for the time being).

Simmons almost drops his tray right there but he disposes of everything properly like a good little soldier setting a good little example for all the impressionable Feds and News huddled around the tables talking about what they're going to do with themselves now that there's no civil war going on.

He sprints out of the mess hall, narrowly avoiding someone- It's Palomo, and he looks confused- and down the long corridor that leads to the Reds’ and Blues’ shared quarters and the infirmary. He spots Grif trying to open his door with both hands occupied by a tray and slows down. Grif doesn't notice him approach, or doesn't make it known if he does. Simmons sands there like an idiot for a bit, just watching. Grif has a small frown on his mouth and looks like he might cry if anything happens suddenly.

Grif hasn't noticed him by the time Simmons works up the tiny amount of courage he needs to reach around his arm and open the door for him without so much as a word. Grif recognizes his prosthetic instantly, that much Simmons can tell. And it worries him because one of Grif's skills is being able to remain impassive, or seem like it. Grif doesn't meet his eyes, just mumbles an apology and ducks inside his room.

Simmons holds the door open and watches Grif sit down on his bed and dejectedly poke at his food. Simmons almost gasps in surprise at how _little_ food Grif has. It's only about a third of his usual portion size. And Simmons knows there were Andersmith’s homemade brownies at the mess hall too and Grif would never turn down something… sweet. Unless- Unless. Something clicks in Simmons’ head. It's almost overwhelming. Simmons feels bad for being scared now. He should, he was stupid. Grif is just angry. Angry because, to get better, he has to give up the easy things that make him happy. But he is doing it. He's trying. And that means the world to Simmons.

“Grif?” Simmons prompts. Grif flicks his eyes towards the door for a second.

“What.”

Simmons frowns and the light from the hallway filtering into Grif's dark room lets him see just how tired and defeated he really looks. His bruises haven't healed completely. He still hasn't showered. Simmons is willing to bet Dr. Grey told him repeatedly to do so. His forehead is probably going to have a permanent crease with how often he's frowned. But still, even now, even when it's nearly too much and Simmons has seen him at his worst he is so strong and brave and he is trying so hard and Simmons- he still loves him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so this is all I have right now. No more queued chapters. It'll probably be a fairly long wait between now and the next chapter. Enjoy this for now, though. I might be able to eek out a one-shot or two, we'll see.
> 
> Thank you for reading! ❤️❤️❤️


	4. The three C’s: Conversation, Communication and Cooperation. C.1, Conversation

Grif is still staring at Simmons with tired, droopy eyes when he closes the door behind him and flicks on the light.

“I'm sorry, Grif,” Simmons says, clenching and unclenching both his hands rhythmically like Dr. Grey showed him.

It gets rid of some of the nerve aches he gets when his prosthetics lock up because he's balled his hands into tight fists and doesn't let them go. Grif is still staring at Simmons with hair that falls in front of his eyes in knotted curls. Simmons sighs with his artificial lungs and sits down at Grif's feet because he's not sure if it'd be okay to sit on his bed.

“I'm sorry for running out on you the other day and avoiding you and acting weird ever since you woke up and-” He lets Grif take a moment to poke at his food some more.

“I want you to know that I don't hate you.” Grif stays silent.

“I'm proud of you, actually. You're stronger than I am. Not- not just physically, either, although you do have a lot of muscle mass and really nice arms and all but I don't think I could do this if I was in your position. It's pretty bad, having to cut out such a big part of your diet, I mean you-”

Grif slides his tray onto his bed and stands up, wordlessly putting a finger to his lips. Simmons snaps his mouth shut.

“For the love of god, Simmons, shut up,” Grif mumbles. Simmons’ face goes red at that, half from embarrassment and half from frustration. He swivels around and glares up at Grif, who's fixed him with an empty gaze.

“I don't need you to patronize me. I'm not strong. I'm not.” Grif says it like it's a matter of fact but to Simmons it's he's trying to convince him that the earth is flat. Simmons stands up and lifts his hands a fraction of an inch.

“Grif, you're the strongest person I know,” he whispers.  
Grif rolls his eyes. Honest to god, his pupils make a full circuit and Simmons resists the urge to wrinkle his nose at such a juvenile display.

“If I'm so strong then explain to me how I apparently got my head bashed in so hard that I lost my mind,” Grif says.  
Okay. First of all. “First of all,” Simmons says. “That has nothing to do with strength. Second fo all you _did not lose your mind.”_

Grif raises his eyebrows at Simmons and points at his head.

“I think I'm pretty crazy, considering I don't remember things that everyone else does,” he says, as if that were the obvious conclusion. Simmons frowns.

“But... wouldn't that make _us_ all crazy? Mass hallucinations and all?” he asks. Grif shrugs.  
“Majority rules, Simmons. I assume you all remember things properly.”

Simmons runs his right hand through his hair. His internal clock is telling him that they're running fourteen minutes late for Dr. Grey’s therapy session. Remembering that he's not, and never has been, afraid of Grif he reaches out and takes his hand.

“Let's talk about this later. Dr. Grey is going to be mad if we're late,” he says. Grif relents, snatching an apple off his tray as Simmons drags him out of the room.

Grif holds Simmons’ hand the whole way to Dr. Grey’s office.

* * *

 

Dr. Grey is sitting with her legs crossed just so and Carolina on her left. The couch she's on hadn't been there earlier so Simmons assumes someone brought it in. Probably Carolina herself. That woman has a penchant for carrying heavy things. Simmons assumes it's because she likes showing off her biceps. He doesn't blame her.

“Ah, Captains. I was wondering when you'd stop by,” Dr. Grey says brighty, as if she doesn't want to pick them apart bit by bit. Simmons drops into one of the chairs opposite Dr. Grey, leaving Grif to sit in the other one.

“I'm glad you came, regardless. It's good to know that you're serious about helping each other get better,” Dr. Grey says in that same honey-sweet voice. Simmons fidgets with the joints on his prosthetic fingers.

“Dr. Grey, what do you mean ‘helping each other get better?’ I thought this was for Grif,” Simmons says. Carolina crosses her arms the other way. She fixes Simmons with a capitalized ‘Look™.’ Simmons shrinks under her gaze.

“Call me Emily, please,” Dr. Grey insists. “And to answer your question with another question, am I wrong in assuming that this development has impacted not only Captain Grif but you, too?”

Simmons shakes his head because he's not sure if he'll say the right words. Yes. Of course Grif's amnesia sucks for him too. It must feel like he's lost a part of himself. He can't imagine how much worse it must be for Grif. Simmons is sure he'd combust if he forgot all about

“I'm sorry I've been thinking all about myself, Grif,” Simmons mumbles.

“Are you?” Grif asks. He's glancing at Simmons out of the corner of his eye.

“Because you just came into my room to tell me how… proud you are. I don't think that's selfishness. Unless you're an anomaly and you manifest your selfishness in unprecedented ways like empty compliments.” Grif tugs on a lock of his greasy hair and imagines everyone in the room disappearing. Anything to distract from the stunned silence.

Simmons hasn't heard Grif talk that way since the first week of being stationed at Blood Gulch. He's pretty sure Grif doesn't want to draw attention to it, if his sudden change all those years ago is anything to go by.

“Of course I'm proud, idiot. I already told you why,” Simmons answers, his words somewhat belated. They do the job, though, and aside from Emily’s disconcerting grin everything seems normal.

“Why are you so concerned with his well-being, considering you just called him an idiot?” Emily asks. Simmons opens his mouth and immediately regrets it.

“Because he's an attractive idiot.”

This gets Grif's attention. He glances at Simmons with his mismatched eyes from under his dark brown hair and raises his eyebrows 2 cm. Simmons has never been more irritated at Sarge's attention to detail than in this moment when his cyborg eye is telling him by how fucking much Grif is raising his eyebrows. And it's in metric.  
Uh. Simmons panics.

“I mean that like- as in, he attracts idiots. No wonder his whole team is a bunch of idiots, right?” He then proceeds to laugh awkwardly for about twice the optimal length.

Emily is staring at him with a look that tells him she knows that's not how grammar works and that she also knows Simmons is digging himself into a hole and he's nearly dug it six feet deep. Carolina is squirming like she's covered in worms. Second-hand embarrassment is a serious condition, alright?

“Allow me to pose a question, Emily,” Grif says. He's talking to her but his eyes are still trained on Simmons.

“What is it about this man that makes him so important? Why is he the only person I've forgotten about?” Simmons stiffens.  
The asshole in him wants to point out that that was actually two questions but the pining gay in him wants to slap Grif across the face and yell ‘because I love you and we're friends!’ or some other sappy bullshit. And then kiss him.

But that gets him thinking. Simmons is important enough to Grif that he's somehow consolidated all his memories in a way that made them connected, made them so easy to lose. Or something. That poses a third question: In what way is Simmons important? Is it purely platonic? Simmons is Grif's best friend, of course, and why wouldn't he keep all their memories safely together or- or however it works. But what if it isn't. What if Grif, holy fucking shit Simmons is going make himself overheat, is In Love™ with him too.

“Bullshit.”

Simmons snaps out of his reverie and stares, wide-eyed at Grif. Did he just say that out loud? Grif isn't looking at him, though. He's glaring at Emily’s notes over her shoulder.

“I'm not in love with Simmons. I barely know the guy,” he grumbles. Emily sets down her pen and shakes her finger at him.

“Ah ah ah, you do know him. Your pesky little memories just want to play hide-and-seek,” she says brightly.

“Don't use your amnesia as an excuse to be impolite, Captain. Simmons here has been trying very hard to help you, though I admit he has been more shy and reserved than usual.” Simmons hates when Emily starts talking like he can't hear her.

“You know why I'm being more shy and reserved, Emily?” Simmons blurts out. Three pairs of eyes lock onto him.

“Because this is a second chance for me and I'm not going to fuck it up again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay this is super short but I'm really stressed and I haven't updated in a while so give me some love in the comments ❤❤❤


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